The Girl Who Never Forgot
by Draculoramalfoy11
Summary: Nelly Carver was a Soc. Emphasis on the WAS. After her father's invention failed and they lost their home, Nelly moved to the East Side of town and became a greaser. Following the meeting of Sodapop Curtis, Nelly made friends with the whole gang and learned the true meaning of friendship. And maybe a bit more than friendship. *Wink Wink*


**Prologue**

All the differences were evident. These sidewalks were cracked and had weeds going through them. The houses were smaller, a lot smaller. Many were boarded up. Some had duct tape on holes that had been smashed though the windows. I could hear people fighting, laughing, talking, through the thin walls of each house.

Sighing, I continued my journey down my new neighborhood. The sights and sounds were very new to me. After being so used to pristine lawns and silent streets, the messiness and ruckus were unfamiliar; nevertheless, something I would have to get used to though.

My trek came to a stop as I stumbled over an uneven area in the path. My hand caught an old, rusty fence, which stopped me from slamming onto the ground. On the downside, it split open my hand. Cursing, I clutched my hand against my unluckily white shirt. That was going to stain.

"Are you okay?" I heard a voice ask. It was a boy, about thirteen, so around my age. He was sitting on the porch of the house the gate was protecting. He was pretty cute. He had the potential to grow up and be real handsome. His hair was golden and was long like most greasers' hair. His brown eyes were filled oddly with concern. For me? Why would a greaser like him care for a- oh, right, I was a greaser now.

I nodded. Greasers were tough, right? A greaser girl wouldn't need help if her hand were cut.

His brow furrowed, "You sure? I mean, I ain't no doctor, but I think you need help if your hand is bleeding that much."

Looking down at my injured palm, I realized the cut had soaked the bottom of my shirt and the top of my jeans with blood. It stung a bit as well.

He stood up and walked down the concrete path (it resembled the sidewalk a lot). He opened the fence and stepped toward me. I resisted the urge to take a step backward. I was a greaser now. I don't need to fear other greasers, do I?

He grabbed my hand carefully and looked at it. "Not too bad. My mom could probably fix it up for you right quick."

Without waiting for my answer, he started leading me toward the house. I felt embarrassed for reason of which I was unsure. He smiled at me, trying to reassure me as he led me through the front door. It was a small, cozy living room. A long sofa with an end table holding a lamp took up one wall. A love seat and a large window took up the wall by the door. A TV sat on the floor and a bathroom door not too far from it.

A boy was sitting on the sofa, reading some book with gold lettering on it. He peered at the boy and me over the top of it. He looked quite a bit like the boy. Same hair, same overall facial structure; his eyes were different though. Green, not brown.

"Soda, who's that?" he had lowered the book to his lap and gestured to me.

He opened his mouth to answer, and then realized he had no idea who I was. Raising an eyebrow, he asked me.

Answering in my quiet voice, I said, "Nelly Carver."

Soda, as the boy called him, said, "Well, I am Sodapop Curtis, and this is my little brother, Ponyboy."

He went to shake my hand. He remembered my gash now.

"Mom!" he yelled, grabbing my unhurt hand and pulled me into the next room. It was a kitchen. The floors were tiled black-and-white checkered pattern. A tiny wooden table dominated the center of it. There was a fridge, a stove, and a couple of cabinets. A slim woman was standing at the sink at the counter. Laying down the dishtowel she had been using to dry dishes, she turned to Sodapop with her hands on her hips. She looked a lot like Sodapop, or Sodapop looked a lot like her I should say.

"Yes, Soda?" she asked in a playfully annoyed manner. She didn't say the words long before she noticed me. And my hand.

"Oh my! What happened?" she grabbed my hand and pulled me into one of the chairs at the small table, "Soda, go get me the first aid kit."

Sodapop jumped up and left the room. Mrs. Curtis continued observing my hand.

"That is a mighty large cut, you got there," she said. I just nodded in agreement and stared at my lap. My typical shyness around strangers was settling in. Sodapop was boy my age; he wasn't all that intimidating. This was an adult though. Adults are intimidating.

Sodapop came back in carrying a red cloth bag. Mrs. Curtis rolled it onto the table. A bunch of small loops held everything in place. Rolls of gauze, small scissors, tweezers, a bottle of alcohol. She pulled out the gauze and the bottle of alcohol.

She looked a bit regretful as she said, "This is gonna burn."

I jumped as I felt Sodapop, who had taken a seat next to mine, grab my free hand. I stared at him. He kept my gaze as she started pouring the alcohol onto the cut. The pain set in immediately and I realized why Sodapop took my hand. I crushed his hand until his fingers turned purple. He looked pained but didn't say anything. I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut to stop from crying. While the pain started subsiding, I felt gentle hands start wrapping gauze around my hand. Opening my eyes, I blinked my wet eyes a few times. Mrs. Curtis was smiling softly at me.

"All patched up now." She rolled up the first aid kit and walked away to put it up. Noticing I was still clutching Sodapop's hand, I quickly released it.

He shook out his hand as if that would make the blood return to it faster. "Golly, I can't even feel my fingers."

I flushed, "Sorry."

He laughed, "It's cool."

I stood up slowly, "I think I need to head home."

Sodapop cocked his head to the side, "Really?"

I nodded.

"Then I'll walk you. Make sure that hand is okay."

I was too shy to reject his offer. He led me out of the house, saying bye to Ponyboy on the way out. I directed him toward my new house. He exclaimed about how he knew where that was and how one of his old classmates had lived there before moving to Missouri. I nodded along with everything he was saying. He chatted the whole time he was walking me home. I could have told you this boy's life story by the time we got to my street. Sodapop Patrick Curtis. Born October 8, 1949. He was two brothers, Darrel "Darry" Shaynne Curtis Jr., who was seventeen, and Ponyboy Michael Curtis, who was eleven. He likes to do what he considers normal activities (Normal for a greaser) like fighting (though his brother and parent's usually wouldn't let him), dancing, racing, and etc. When we got to my house, he asked, "What about you?"

I looked at him and shrugged.

"Come on. You gotta have a birthday. Everyone has a birthday."

"April 9, 1949," I answered hesitantly.

"Siblings?"

I shook my head.

"What do you like to do?"

"Read."

"You and Ponyboy would get on real well." he commented, "Anything special about you?"

I though about if I should tell him. It was a bit weird. And I had never really told anyone besides my dad. He said it was an extraordinary thing, but I could become an outcast for it. This boy though, with his cheerful brown eyes and open expression. He wouldn't do that to me. Would he?

"Well, there is this thing…"

He nodded, telling me to go on.

"I don't think there is a name for it, but… I… I never forget."

He cocked his head to the side, looking confused, "What do you mean you never forget anything?"

"Exactly what I said. Whatever I see, hear, smell, touch, I never forget it."

"Are you serious?"

I nodded.

He grinned, "That is amazing. Do you-" He continued rambling on, asking me questions about things and declaring how cool it was.

That was the day I made a friend in Sodapop Curtis.


End file.
